


This Is My Pity Party

by SecretStudentDragonBlog



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blowjobs, Grammys 2006, Grammys 2019, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 14:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17789228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretStudentDragonBlog/pseuds/SecretStudentDragonBlog
Summary: Patrick is angry after the 2006 Grammy awards. Patrick is also angry after the 2019 Grammy awards. Pete, infatuated since the day they met, is willing to watch Patrick have a 3-day tantrum, but even Pete can only take so much of Patrick's bullshit.





	This Is My Pity Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/gifts).



> As with my previous Peterick's I'm down to the wire, and as with my previous Peterick's I've done a swerve at the last minute and written something completely different. Same old, same old.
> 
> Peterick doesn't come easy to me and this is also the first time I've included a smidgen of smut.
> 
> These boys will be the death of me one day.
> 
> Huge shoutout to @SnitchesAndTalkers for behind-the-scenes encouragement and offers of beta'ing - even though I wrote it too late to take you up on the offer in the end, I appreciate it like you wouldn't believe and will inevitably throw nonsense your way again in the future. Love you.
> 
> This one's for @PlatinumAndPercocet for the endless love and support over the past couple of months - your 'hello my friend' messages make my day, every day, and I hope this puts a small smile on your face. Please enjoy with some of your ever-delicious-looking food and know that I adore you endlessly. And sorry for the workplace trouser area!!

**February 8 2006 – sometime near midnight**

 

Patrick eats his Subway sandwich – Veggie Delite on 9 grain wheat, extra cheese, lettuce, tomato, green peppers, Ranch dressing, no pickles because he’s vegetarian, not a fucking sociopath - in his hotel room, and he eats it _angrily_. Pete watches in awe as Patrick tears into the sub, his teeth ripping the bread apart, and furious sounds coming from his mouth as he chews. Pete's own sandwich – steak and cheese, triple Monterey, toasted, the bare minimum salad (a few sorry-looking pieces of lettuce and a scattering of sweetcorn) he feels he _should_ eat rather than actually wants to, and barbecue sauce on Italian herb and cheese, because they just lost a Grammy and he’s not going to pretend to be edge tonight – sits cooling beside him, not even unwrapped.

 

Patrick has dressing around his mouth, a sliver of tomato stuck to his top lip, his ascot slung across the room in a fit of temper the second he walked in and his shirt untucked and mostly unbuttoned. He’s an infuriated mess of a man and Pete is mesmerised. He has never, in all the time they’ve known each other, wanted to fuck his best friend more than he does right at this minute.

 

He’s been overwhelmed with lustful feelings for Patrick many times before tonight – it was pretty much a given that Pete was going to fall hard and fast for Patrick when they met, even with the whole argyle sweater and shorts fashion disaster that greeted him at the door. Pete honestly thinks that the outfit sealed the deal – how could he _not_ love someone who would audition to play drums in a punk band while wearing fucking argyle? Pete's feelings are not new, they’re just a lot more _legal_ these days and somewhat less likely – although not entirely – to get his head removed from his body by Patrick's Mom.

 

“So, you’re _not_ mad we lost?” Pete clarifies, speaking slowly more to help himself understand than anything else. It doesn’t help.

 

“Dude, we were never going to fucking win that!” Patrick tells him. “C’mon, man. John Legend! Putting us up against him? You heard him tonight.” Patrick shakes his head, looking off to one side as he hears John’s voice in his head. “I think, on the next album, I need to actually _try_ singing.”

 

Pete keeps quiet at the last statement. It’s preposterous to him that until now Patrick hasn’t been trying. If what Patrick has been doing so far isn’t him giving it his best shot, Pete thinks maybe it’s time to quit the band and go and live in the rainforest somewhere away from civilisation – he struggles to breathe sometimes when Patrick sings as it is and he’s not sure how he’ll cope if Patrick ups his game.

 

Patrick discards the remainder of his sandwich, wrapping it in the paper and attempting a dunk into the wastepaper basket, which falls short – a fitting analogy for them as Grammy nominees, he thinks. They came, they saw, they got their asses handed to them royally, and Joe was dressed like a 70s porn star to boot.

 

“Us losing was an inevitability.” Patrick says. “We shouldn’t have even been nominated. Didn’t you feel kind of…inadequate compared to everyone else there tonight?”

Pete had _actually_ felt like a Roman Emperor, if Caesar had gone through an emo fringe, eyeliner and wanting-to-experience-the-bad-touch-with-Brutus phase in his mid-twenties, but thinking about it seriously he understands what Patrick means.

 

“Are you really that upset about Kanye losing?” He asks. “I think you’re more bothered about it than he is.”

 

“I’m not _upset,_ Pete.” Patrick tells him. “I am incandescent with rage right now. Everything about tonight was just wrong. Us even being there, Kanye losing-”

 

“He won 3 awards, ‘Trick.” Pete cuts in. “That’s gotta count for something.”

 

“Album of the fucking year, Pete.” Patrick spits. “That should have been a no-brainer. Who votes for these things anyway? Old, rich, white dudes. They don’t understand what he’s trying to do and they don’t _want_ to understand, so they just give it to the other rich, white dudes that they find the least offensive.”

 

Pete ponders Patrick's logic for a moment, then his biggest grin splits his face.

 

“So, when _we’re_ rich we’ll win.” He says. “We’re white dudes, for the most part, and I know I’m kind of a liability, but in the grand scheme of things we’re pretty non-offensive, right?” He waits for Patrick's nod of resignation before continuing. “Listen, I feel like you’re underselling us and yourself right now.” Pete feels strongly about their potential as a band – they’re only two albums in, and he feels he’s just getting started lyrically and he knows for sure that Patrick is only scratching at the surface of his musical abilities. “Give us enough time and we’ll be back there again. And next time we’re going to deserve it and win it. You just see if we don’t.”

 

Famous last words – Pete rules at this.

 

 

**February 14 2019**

It’s been three days. It’s also been thirteen years. And it’s been almost eighteen years.

 

Three days since losing at the Grammys – again. Thirteen years since losing at the Grammys for the first time. Almost eighteen years since a fateful day in a bookshop led Pete to Patrick's front door with Joe to audition a potential drummer.

 

As Pete watches, yet again, as Patrick rages at the bullshit that is the music industry, he experiences a weird split where he’s _here_ and _now_ , but he’s also _then_. The Patrick pacing the studio in front of him is simultaneously a teenager carrying the last of his puppy fat on his pink cheeks, wearing a knitted cap jammed down as low as it will go over long hair and jeans heavily torn out at the knee and wristbands, and he’s a man in his thirties, with short hair and a beard, carrying some weight again, but wearing skinny jeans and a cardigan. These two Patrick's merge and overlap and split apart again. They both have a godawful temper and that voice that was Pete's golden ticket and is now just golden. Pete doesn’t hear any of what Patrick is saying, not really. This has been going on since Sunday and it doesn’t show signs of slowing any time soon. If Pete thought Patrick was furious 13 years ago he was dead wrong – Patrick’s temper apparently knows no bounds and Pete has no words for what he’s witnessing.

 

On Sunday morning, Pete called Patrick to triple-check travel arrangements and arrange a meeting point in order to walk the red carpet as a unit before meeting up with family again once inside. That was when Patrick announced that he wasn’t actually going.

 

Pete was so shocked he couldn’t speak for almost ten seconds – a record for him. Then.

 

“But you’re kidding, right? This is a joke, like funny ha ha, joke’s on you Pete, right?” He could hear the rising note of panic in his voice. Patrick huffed down the line at him, annoyed.

 

“No, Pete. Not a joke. Us going to this thing again, when we’re going to lose, is a joke. We’re a joke.” Pete heard the unspoken words that Patrick couldn’t bring himself to say – _I’m a joke_.

 

“But you’re the lead singer.” Pete told him. “You, like, _have_ to be there. We can’t be Fall Out Boy without you.” _I can’t be Fall Out Boy without you_.

 

“Oh, please.” Pete had never Patrick sound so _done_. “ _You’re_ the one people want to see. People think of Fall Out Boy they think of Pete Wentz. And that’s not a bad thing, and I’m not complaining. I didn’t want the limelight. It worked out the way we wanted it.”

 

“Except for the validation.” Pete said quietly. “Listen, whether we win or not, we got nominated. And for an album, dude. Not Best Dick Pic, or whatever shit we got nommed for last time, but the album got recognised. That’s a big deal. And we should all be there to celebrate that. Together.” Silence from Patrick's end. “What if we never get nominated again? And you missed this?” More silence. Pete went for the strongest weapon in his arsenal. “I’ll tell Andy.”

 

“I’m 34, man. That probably still works on Joe, but not on me.” Patrick sighed. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

 

“Just wear something black. You look great in black. Anyway, I’m wearing a bow tie – you think anyone’s gonna see beyond that tonight?”

 

Patrick didn’t even wait until they left the Staples Center to start venting, ranting about a “stupid fucking waste of our time” and raging at “those assholes out there telling us to smile” and – bizarrely – “missing Grey’s Anatomy for this bullshit”, all while still in the vicinity of the auditorium. Not that anyone could have heard any of it over Cardi B performing, but Pete still felt a little nervous at Patrick's apparent lack of concern at where they were. Joe, who had come outside to give his kids some breathing space, had swiftly steered them down the nearest hallway as soon as he saw the colour in Patrick's face and the set of his mouth, knowing that an explosion of volcanic proportions was about to happen. He wasn’t wrong.

 

And now, three days later, Patrick is still spewing the verbal equivalent of molten lava everywhere, still polluting the environment around him with his ashen diatribe, and Pete is as in awe as he was thirteen years ago. And as in love as he ever has been.

 

On one level, Pete is sure that Patrick must know that Pete loves him. He’s never tried to hide it – the entire world knows it, from the kids at the shows to his own Mom, who gives him ‘hopeful eyebrows’ whenever he goes home to visit, always followed by ‘disappointed mouth’. Patrick _has_ to know. But on another level, this is Patrick, who can swing wildly from shockingly naïve to uncannily on the money in a heartbeat. The one thing that Pete is 100% certain of is that Patrick Likes Girls.

 

His track record demonstrates that – grenade-jumping, girlfriends, the short-lived fiancé, hook-ups. The thing that they have in common is that they were all girls. Not a dude in sight among them. Not one. Pete knows he’s come closest, with his on-stage antics and his off-stage pursuit of his true-blue love, but he’s never managed anything more than sloppy kisses pressed into Patrick's neck as he sang. The one time he tried, when they were stage-high from a particularly great show in Tulsa, Patrick had shoved him away and told him never to do that again. ‘That’ had been kissing, when Pete had just gone for it, unable to resist Patrick with his sweat-drenched t-shirt and slightly hoarse-from-singing voice. And for just a moment, just a shutter-snap of time, Patrick had responded. Pete knew he hadn’t imagined it – the briefest touch of Patrick's tongue to his, the brush of Patrick's hand on his forearm, the hips pushed forward into Pete's – but it was over in a breath and Patrick was gone, back to loading the van.

 

Since then, it’s been over a decade of yearning and burning, aching and faking, girls and guys and nothing lasting longer than a couple of months. Pete has been completely unable to settle down, because he knows he’d be settling _for_ and what’s the point of that? Why be with just anyone when the person you really and truly want is so near yet so far out of reach? Why put another person through the torture of a relationship you’re only half in?

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” He mutters sourly, more to himself than anything else. He hates that he feels this every year he’s with-but-without Patrick, but this year it’s harder than ever – no pun intended. Actually, it truly is hard – Pete's a weird guy and everyone knows it, but getting a boner over Patrick because he’s in a fit of temper? That probably pushes it out of ‘weird’ territory and into ‘involuntary committal’.

 

Patrick has stopped moving and has gone silent. He stares at Pete, who is sitting on the studio couch, slightly bent forward and his elbows resting on his knees, looking up at Patrick with a slightly slack-jawed expression on his face. Patrick frowns and Pete closes his mouth, wondering if Patrick knows he’s hunching over to hide his inappropriate and frankly embarrassing erection. He’s going to be 40 in June – how is this still happening to him?

 

“What did you say?” Patrick asks and there’s more than a hint of suspicion in his voice.

 

“Nothing important.” Pete shakes his head. “I don’t mean to interrupt your three-day epic on ‘why the Grammys suck’, but I think you asked me over here to do some song-writing? As in writing of songs. We can possibly use some of what you’ve said, but I don’t think we’ll get a sports anthem out of it this time.”

 

“Suck my dick.” Patrick snaps.

 

“Eloquent. Concise. Articulate.” Pete decides he’s had enough. Bonerific as Patrick may be when he’s ‘in the mood’, Pete is emotionally exhausted. “Maybe you should go back to lyrics for the next album and watch us sail home with all the accolades and trophies. Or, y’know, get the fuck over it, ‘Trick. We lost. So what? Does it make Mania any less than it is? Are we any less proud of it? Have the fans turned on it, or us, because of this stupid award?” He stands to leave, no longer caring whether Patrick sees the obviousness in his pants – it’s not like they’ve never had erections in one another’s presence before. They’ve all jerked off in the van, motel rooms, dressing rooms when they thought the others were asleep. “You want to keep bitching about it, go ahead, but I’m going home.” He picks up his jacket.

 

“I said suck. my. dick.” Patrick speaks more slowly, biting off between the words. He steps right into Pete's personal space, putting them chest to chest. “Or did you want me to suck yours?”  


“The fuck is this?” Pete's voice comes out in a squeak.

 

“Your wildest fantasies coming true.” Patrick shoves Pete back onto the couch. Pete falls in an undignified heap and doesn’t try to get up again – his legs wouldn’t co-operate now, even if he wanted them to. “Guess I’m sucking yours then.” And he actually gets down on his knees between Pete's feet. “Breathe, Pete. You’re no fucking use to me dead.”

 

Pete pulls in a lungful of air, his hands scrabbling at the material of the couch either side of his thighs because Patrick's hands are at his belt and Pete needs to hold onto something real and solid so that he knows this isn’t a dream. Patrick's fingers make short work of the button and zipper, his fingers ‘accidentally’ brushing against the front of Pete's cock in the process and Pete jerks at the simple touch.

 

“Lift your bony ass up, Wentz.” Patrick tugs at Pete's waistband and Pete complies. His underwear goes with the jeans and Patrick's mouth closes over the head of Pete's dick before the denim is halfway down his shins.

 

Pete almost loses his mind. All those years of thinking about this exact moment, this precise feeling, and he knows it’s going to be the quickest and hardest orgasm he’s ever had. He looks down at Patrick, that perfect fucking mouth wrapped around his cock, those stormy eyes, still full of fire, looking back at him and the impending sense of letting go rushes through him.

 

He pushes his hands into Patrick's hair – what there is of it with this short cut he’s gone for recently – and fists them there, tugging Patrick closer, until he can see Patrick's nose is pressed against the skin of his stomach, the tip of it brushing Pete's tattoo. Pete holds Patrick there for a second then let’s go, although Patrick shows no signs of choking and actually smirks up at Pete as he bobs up and down, taking Pete's whole length with each swallow. _So, everything about that mouth is wonderful_ , Pete thinks dreamily. _No fucking gag reflex. Holy shit_.

 

Without thinking, Pete begins to pump his hips up off the couch. He wants to prolong this, he really does, but he can’t get enough of Patrick fucking Stump sucking his dick. And – oh no, oh shit – that was the wrong thing to think. There isn’t even time for him to give any kind of warning before he’s spilling down Patrick's throat. And now Patrick does gag, a little, because it was unexpected and sudden, but he recovers himself quickly and doesn’t pull off until Pete is through and collapsed against the couch cushions, a shaking, sweaty mess.

 

Patrick wipes his hand across his mouth and looks up at Pete, a considering look in his eyes, which have at least softened now, the anger evaporated.

 

“That…that was unreal.” Pete manages. “Where did you learn to do that?”

 

“Don’t know.” Patrick shrugs. “First time.”

 

“First time?” There’s that squeak again. “Are you fucking serious?”

 

“About that? Yes. About you? Also, yes.” Patrick moves, pretty smoothly for a guy who’s just been on his knees delivering an epic blowjob, from the floor to Pete's lap, straddling him. “Was I worth the wait?”

 

Pete thinks about his answer, all manner of snarky responses swimming through his head, followed by pretty declarations of love, but settles on a simple nod of his head – no words will suffice and nothing can adequately describe how he feels, but he thinks Patrick knows and has always known. He just wasn’t ready.

 

“Why now?” Pete asks, his voice ragged and unsteady. He has a lapful of the man he loves and the feel and the weight and the smell of him combine and wash over Pete, threatening to drown him in sensation.

 

“Valentine’s Day.” Patrick replies. “I hadn’t realised. And when I did, there you were, about to walk out on me. I know you were only going home, but you’ve listened to me complaining since Sunday. You’ve let me boss you around and generally behave like an ass for 18 years, Pete. And I realised I don’t need a trophy – I’ve already won.”

 

“You cliché little fuck.” Pete laughs, bucking up with his hips and flipping Patrick onto his back on the couch. “If we’re going to be assholes about it, I think it’s past time that I got my hands on my prize.”


End file.
